Barbara Metzger (6 page)

“Please, Miss Whilton, you’re merely overset at the unexpected arrival of an additional guest. He’s your relative, an older gentleman. You must strive for a little respect.”

Daphne was striving not to beat her slow-top suitor over the head with an umbrella from the nearby stand.

“You do not understand, Miles. My uncle is not in the least respectable. He’ll insult the other guests with his gutter language, or try to cheat them at cards if he doesn’t cast up his accounts on their shoes or molest their servants. The old rakehell will ruin Mama’s beautiful wedding.”

Miles Pomeroy refused to listen to gossip and never read the latest crim. con. stories in the London papers, so he truly did not know the worst of Albert’s reputation, only that he preferred city life to the country. “Nonsense,” he said now. “You’ve hardly seen your uncle in years. And what should a young miss like you know about rakehells and loose screws? Nothing, I’m sure, but the tattle-mongers’ tripe. Come, he is the head of your family. In fact, I was delighted to be of service to him. Perhaps he’ll look more kindly on my request for a private word about a certain matter.”

Lud, it needed only that. “Miles, Uncle Albert is hardly ever sober enough for a
rational conversation, and the only family he’s head of is the lizard family. He wouldn’t recognize his own sons if he passed them on the street, and I do not recognize him as taking my father’s place in anything but title.” There, that should cure Mr. Pomeroy of his latest notion. Nothing, she feared, would cure him of his pomposity.

He merely patted her hand and said, “Tut, tut. I can see you’re still overset.”

Daphne jumped on that excuse to see Miles on his way. “Yes, I’m sorry I cannot invite you to stay for supper, but, as you say, we are all at sixes and sevens.” She stepped closer to the door, forcing him to head in that direction, too.

“I’ll just be off then to pursue my investigation.” He reluctantly took up the gloves and hat she handed him. “I’m sure the miscreants are long gone, although Lord Woodhill did think he wounded one of them. I’ll call tomorrow to see how you get on, and to report to Lord Woodhill on my findings. Nothing was taken, at any rate.”

He most likely didn’t have anything the thieves wanted, Daphne thought. Uncle Albert’s pockets were perennially to let. She was positive now that her uncle had come, not to disrupt the wedding, which was still two weeks away, but to threaten to do so. Lord Hollister was certain to buy him off, or Mama would. Daphne’d hand over her own pin money to see the miserable muckworm out of the county. For now it was enough to see Miles out the door. She leaned against it when he was gone, her eyes closed. Then someone put a glass of sherry in her hand. Her eyes snapped open.

“Here, you can use this.” Graydon was smiling down at her. “I’m afraid we’ll all need some Dutch courage before the night is over. I cannot promise to slay your dragons for you,” he added with a nod toward the door, “but at least I won’t desert you.”

“Miles didn’t—” she began, but Ohlman returned down the stairs then, holding on to the banister. For once the implacable butler’s composure was shaken. Daphne shoved the glass of wine into her loyal retainer’s hand. “You need this more than I do,” she said. “Was he in a rant?”

Ohlman drank the wine down in a gulp, said, “Thank you, Miss Daphne,” and mopped his brow. “It wasn’t so much what he said, as what he threw. I’m too old for all that ducking. I’ll make sure to send two of the quickest footmen up with his dinner tray. Then say my prayers that his valet recovers enough to get here tomorrow. If I have to shave the man, I refuse to answer for the consequences.” Ohlman straightened up, bowed to Daphne and Lord Howell, and resumed his stately tread to the small butler’s pantry where he likely kept a stronger restorative than sherry.

Daphne took one look at Gray’s twitching lips and had to clap her hands over her mouth. One tiny giggle escaped before she remembered where she was—and with whom. “It’s not funny, Major.” She’d decided on Major as being the middle ground of names and titles, not as formal as Lord Howell, not as familiar as Graydon. “I’m afraid that man”—she jerked her head upward—“means to cause trouble.”

“Oh, I’m certain of that. We’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t, won’t we?” And he grinned at her, emphasizing the “we.” He would have taken her hand, perhaps to kiss it, but Ohlman returned then to announce that dinner was served.

No one ate much of Cook’s fine meal except for Graydon, who was delighted with the turn of events. Being partners in adversity was better than not being partners at all.

Chapter Six

If dinner was dismal, the gathering afterward was ghastly. Everyone was on tenterhooks, hoping the tea cart—and an excuse to retire—arrived before Albert. They didn’t.

The baron hobbled into the parlor supported by a heavy bone-handled cane, looking more raddled and rheumy-eyed than ever, aged well beyond his years. Lord Hollister’s sister gasped when he brushed past her, and held a lace-edged handkerchief to her nose.

“Niminy-piminy female,” Albert wheezed, sinking into the most comfortable chair in the room, the one Daphne’s mother had just vacated to flee to Lord Hollister’s side on the sofa. From his place near the fire, Uncle Albert took out his quizzing glass and surveyed the company, his gaze lingering longest on Daphne. He licked his lips. Lord Hollister’s sister drew in another quick breath of air, which in turn drew the most ignoble nobleman’s attention.

“What, trying to fix m’interest, are you? Too bad your husband left you as poor as a church mouse, else I’d offer you a tumble, even if you are as shriveled as a prune.”

The lady ran from the room, weeping. Her brother, the earl, said, “Here now, Baron, there’s no call to be insulting the ladies.”

Albert laughed, or wheezed—it was hard to tell which. “Thought I was payin’ a compliment. Don’t expect the old bat gets many offers these days.” Before Lord Hollister could decide on an appropriate response, feeling that planting the decrepit man a facer was beneath his dignity, Albert turned to Graydon. “You, boy. Get me a drink.”

“I’ll just go see what’s keeping the tea tray, shall I?” Lady Whilton hopped up again.

“Sit down, sister. I ain’t about to maudle my insides with that catlap. I said I want a drink.” He pounded his cane into the floor next to his chair, making the china shepherdesses on the nearby étagère shake, along with Lady Whilton.

Not Cousin Harriet. She headed for the bellpull. “I’ll tell Ohlman to bring coffee. That’s what you need, you old sot, not any more Blue Ruin.”

Albert sneered at her through his looking glass as if she were a cockroach. “What’s that Friday-faced old sapphist doing here? Get out, woman. It’s my house and drink what I want. Get out, I say.”

Harriet stormed to the door. “Don’t worry, sirrah, I wouldn’t stay under the same roof as you. One of your so-called social diseases might be catching.”

“In your dreams, woman, in your dreams.”

Cousin Harriet left in a huff as Ohlman entered with the tea cart. Daphne didn’t know whether to go after her or stay to comfort her mother, who was sniffling into Lord Hollister’s handkerchief. She poured a cup of tea for Mama first.

“Where’s my drink, damn it?” Uncle Albert thundered, slamming his cane down again.

Daphne started to ask how he liked his tea, but Graydon, who’d been standing near the mantel, reached for a decanter and poured out a glass. He handed it to the older man, saying, “Here, Baron, some fine brandy. No need to disturb the house.” Then he came to stand behind Daphne’s chair.

“Why did you give him brandy?” Daphne whispered. “Anyone can see he’s had more than enough to drink.”

“Yes, but this way he’s liable to pass out. Otherwise he’ll just get meaner. Trust me, I’ve seen enough drunks in my day.”

Well, she certainly hadn’t, so Daphne held her peace while Uncle Albert sloshed down his drink, then rapped the glass on the chair arm for more. To distract him, Daphne said, “Mr. Pomeroy wasn’t clear on the details of the robbery. It was a whole band of cutthroats that attacked you and your valet?”

“Aye, a murderous band of road pirates.” He turned to growl at Lord Hollister. “And if you blue bloods did your job and took better care of the highways, none of it would have happened, by Jupiter.”

No one cared to mention that Albert’s blood, what wasn’t turned to vinegar, was as blue as anyone’s, and as a major landholder, he was equally responsible for seeing to the roads. Daphne just thought to keep him talking until he lost consciousness, as Gray had promised. “I thought Mr. Pomeroy said the attack took place at a low tavern.”

“Which I’d never have patronized, missy, if my blasted carriage hadn’t lost a wheel to the bloody ruts. So there we were, Terwent and I, stranded at some dingy pub while a grubby urchin went to fetch a blacksmith. Most likely took my coins and left the neighborhood,” he muttered, staring at his glass. “Still empty, blister it!”

Graydon poured out another round. Daphne frowned, but he winked at her as he took his position behind her chair with the cup of tea she had prepared for him. “And then?” he prompted. “You and, er, Terwent found yourself at a hedge tavern, you say?”

“Thieves’ ken, more like. They must have pegged us for nobs right off.”

If the highwaymen figured the two were rich swells, Daphne thought, looking at Uncle Albert’s rumpled clothes, spotted linen, and scraggly, unkempt hair, then Terwent must cut quite a dash. He surely wasn’t much of a gentleman’s gentleman, judging from his master.

Albert was going on: “I had my purse out to pay. Blasted innkeep wanted to see my money before serving the swill he called supper. That’s when the band of robbers made their move. Set a big dog on me, they did.”

“A dog?” Lady Whilton asked in faint tones. “You were robbed by a dog?”

“No, by George, I foiled their plans. That big ugly hound lunged for my wallet on the table. I was wise to that ploy. Not born yesterday, don’t you know. Dog steals a man’s purse and runs off, but no one claims the cur, so they get away. Takes a real organized band of felons, I figure. But I stopped ’em dead in their tracks, I did.” Albert lifted his glass and toasted his own genius. “I knew which crafty devils had been feeding the beast: an old gaffer who must have been the mastermind, and his two apprentice thieves, one big, the other real small. So when the dog grabbed my lamb chop—”

“A lamb chop? I thought it went for your purse.”

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to interrupt, gel? Of course, I wasn’t going to let any mangy mutt get my blunt. I had that back in my pocket before the landlord could put the dishes down. So the dog grabbed the dinner instead. I demanded my money back, right off, then started laying into that brute of a dog with my cane.” He waved the heavy-handled instrument around, in illustration. Graydon hurried to move the oil lamp from the table next to the baron’s chair.

“And I was right, for didn’t the old codger jump up to defend the flea-hound? So I hit him a good one right across the brain-box. He went down, but then his accomplices waded in, the big one screaming and the little one whining. So I laid into them, too. Left. Right.” He waved the cane over his head, left, right, and snagged the lace doily on the back of the chair. It sailed across the room and into the fireplace, where it sizzled into threads in seconds. “Got Terwent a good one, too, sad to say. He should be right as a trivet tomorrow, as soon as the carriage is ready.”

“But what about the thieves, Uncle Albert?” Daphne doubted the band of footpads was anything but an innocent party of poor travelers and their hungry dog.

“Got away, of course. Your magistrate didn’t show up for hours, either. Couldn’t find a trace of ’em, then he tried to say they didn’t get away with anything anyway. Surprised the gudgeon can find his way home at night.”

Daphne felt she had to defend Miles, perhaps because she could hear Graydon chuckling behind her. How the beast could find anything funny in this situation was beyond her. “Mr. Pomeroy is very conscientious about his position as justice of the peace. He works quite hard at it, as a result of which we have very little crime in the neighborhood.”

“Very little of anything else in the neighborhood, either. Deuce take it what you turnips find to do in the country.”

Lord Hollister tended to agree with him, but only said, “If you find the rural life so tedious, I wonder why you’ve left the city at all.”

Uncle Albert started wheezing again. Or laughing. No, Daphne thought as the sound went on and on, he was definitely wheezing. She poured him a cup of tea, which he batted out of the way. She sat down again with the cup. She could use it, if he couldn’t. When he caught his breath Albert gasped, “The wedding, you gabby. I’ve come as head of the family to stop the wedding.”

Mama cried, “I knew it!” but the earl patted her shoulders.

“Don’t be a peagoose, Cleo,” he said. “You’re of age and need no one’s permission. Whilton cannot stop the marriage.”

“He cannot even stop a dog from stealing his supper,” Graydon murmured into Daphne’s ear, which riffled the curls there and tickled. She shifted farther away in the seat, fussing with the pastries on the tray.

“But I can point out you’re blighting your children’s chances of making a good match, I can. You almost ruined it already, raising ’em up like brother and sister. Took all the spice out of it, if you know what I mean. Of course, there’s Byron and his sister… Any road, making ’em brother and sister in fact likely makes it illegal for them to marry anyway.”

Suddenly Graydon did not find the situation quite as humorous. “Gammon, we’re hardly relations. Besides, with enough money, one can get a dispensation for anything.” He bit down on the lemon tart in his hand.

“Mama and Lord Hollister must think of their own happiness, Uncle,” Daphne put in, ignoring Gray’s rebuttal as mere argumentation. “I am thinking of making a match elsewhere, if it is any of your business.”

The rest of Graydon’s lemon tart fell to the floor.

“What, that prosy stick who hinted he had an interest here? You’d do better with Hollister’s cub, gel. He’ll be an earl someday, no matter how wild he is now.”